


blood to me, dust to you

by sarahcakes613



Series: The Cohen Files [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/pseuds/sarahcakes613
Summary: Jaime is being held prisoner by The King in the North. Eventually, there is sex. Tagging it for dub-con due to the whole prisoner aspect.





	blood to me, dust to you

  _I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp._  
 _Have you grown fond of me, Stark? Is that it? I've never seen you with a girl._

Jaime Lannister, The North Remembers (GoT 2x01)

_There's truth that lives_   
_And truth that dies_   
_I don't know which_   
_So never mind_

Nevermind - Leonard Cohen

 

Robb visits him every night. He’d had Jaime moved to a tent when the weather turned, saying it would do him no favours if his bargaining chip were to fall ill and die before terms were met. Most nights he just sits there, across from Jaime, Grey Wind at his side. Sometimes he brings a whetstone and silently sharpens his blade. Jaime waits for the night the blade is stuck through him, the night Grey Wind’s teeth latch on to his throat, but the days go on and he remains alive and unharmed.

It’s been about two weeks by Jaime’s reckoning, when Robb storms into the tent, wind causing canvas and cloak alike to flap behind him. Jaime hasn’t seen him this heated up since he was captured, Robb’s skin is flushed, eyes near black with anger. Grey Wind looms next to him, hackles raised.

“Your bastard son has refused my terms, Kingslayer. You’d best get comfortable,” Robb nods at the shackles that connect Jaime’s wrists to the post in the middle of the tent, “you’re to be our guest for a while longer.”

Jaime shrugs, the shackles clanking around him.

“I don’t know what you expected, Stark. Joffrey doesn’t do as he’s told, hasn’t since he first learned the word ‘no’ as a babe.”

Robb stalks closer to Jaime, close enough that Jaime can see the tic of muscle in Robb’s jaw.

“What I _expected_ , Lannister, is that your whore sister would see the sense of my offer. I love my sisters dearly, but you and I both know they are not worth much as players in this game. Your life in exchange for theirs is more than generous and instead my offer is spat back in my face.”

Jaime surges forward as much as the chains allow. He forgets for a moment that he is kneeling and Robb is standing, and his movement puts him inches away from Robb’s leather-clad torso. This close, he can smell the battlefield on Robb, the sweat and smoke and petrichor wafting off him. Jaime closes his eyes, inhales deeply, he misses the battlefield, the weight of armor, of his sword in hand, he misses it even more than the softness of his sweet sister’s body.

Grey Wind lets out a long low growl, and Robb shifts back a step, clearing his throat. Jaime looks up at him through shaggy hair. He grins, leonine, and drawls, “I’m sorry, _Lord_ Stark, does this make you uncomfortable? Is it so unpleasant, the sight of me on my knees in front of you?”

Robb’s flush deepens and he steps forward again, one gloved hand reaching out to curl fingers in Jaime’s hair. His grip tightens as he pulls Jaime’s head back and leans down over him.

The kiss, when it comes, is less of a kiss and more of a gnashing of teeth and lips. Robb nips at Jaime’s mouth, and Jaime relaxes into this familiarity, lets Robb’s tongue plunder his mouth, though he does not respond in kind.

Robb lets go abruptly, wiping his mouth violently on his sleeve, and is gone from the tent before Jaime has time to think of a single witty remark.

Robb does not visit him for three nights, though from the sounds of things outside his tent, Jaime is sure they have not gone out on any more sorties. He has no other visitors, save for one Silent Sister who brings him food once daily, and soothes ointment into the chafing on his wrists. He does not try to speak to her, knowing she is sworn not to respond in kind. In any case, he’s not interested in attempting to escape, which surprises him when he realises it. He may be in no position to learn any of the Young Wolf’s secrets where he is, but he’s seen worse prisoner conditions – hells, he’s kept prisoners in worse conditions. If Robb Stark wants to waste manpower and food on Jaime Lannister’s comfort, who is he to complain?

Finally, a night comes when he hears the murmur of “your grace” outside his tent. He stills himself, listens carefully. Two men walk away from the tent, but none enter for a moment. Eventually, Robb walks in, carrying Jaime’s supper tray. He is not in his cloak tonight, nor his boiled leathers. He is dressed only in a tunic and pants, and he looks more like a green squire than the King in the North. It takes Jaime a moment to catch on to another difference. Tonight, Robb’s direwolf is nowhere to be seen. Tonight, Robb has come alone.

Robb sets the tray down carefully on a table, and Jaime can see that it holds his usual fare of stew and brown bread, as well as the small jar of viscous liquid that is used to treat his wounds. Jaime arches an eyebrow as Robb brings him his supper.

“What, no salt?” Jaime asks sardonically.

Robb is grim in his response. “Bread and salt are the right of guests, Kingslayer. You are not my guest, you are my prisoner. It’s bread and stew and you’re lucky to have nothing extra tossed in by one of my men.”

Jaime shrugs, and reaches for his supper. Robb hands it to him, watching as he methodically works his way through the food. He refuses to let it phase him, being watched as he eats by this pup playing at manhood. He licks at his fingers to catch the last few drops, tongue darting out to lap at crumbs. He looks at Robb out of the corner of his eye, watching Robb watch him. Robb’s own tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Jaime grins, hiding it behind his bowl. Robb’s come to him alone and unarmed. He doesn’t think Robb realises yet how this night will end, but Jaime does, and he finds he’s looking forward to it. There’s two things he is good at, fighting and fucking, and he’s not interested in fighting Robb Stark. The minty aroma of ointment jerks him from his thoughts, and his vision hones in on the sight of Robb Stark squatting in front him. Jaime’s eyes are at level with the open collar of Stark’s tunic and he compares the two of them mentally. Jaime is normally hairless, though months of travel have caused his hair to slowly return, his chest now covered in a fine blonde mane. Stark’s chest is in line with his moniker, a thick red tuft of hair that curls up his chest as if to meet his beard, wolfish and wild.

His shackles clink as Robb produces a key from somewhere on his person and he finds one of his wrists freed. Robb stares hard at him, daring him to make any sudden moves, but Jaime is too focused on shaking the blood back into his hand to bother with grabbing for the key.

Robb dips two fingers into the jar of balm and brings them up to Jaime’s freed wrist. He grips it lightly and begins massaging the balm into the groove that has been worn in Jaime’s skin by the metal cuff. He then reaches down to his tunic and rips a strip off to tie around the wrist before returning it to it’s cuff. He repeats the motions with Jaime’s other wrist, and now Jaime is fully in shackles again but there is a slightly scratchy fabric barrier between skin and metal. Jaime is not sure what to say, is oddly touched by this attention from Stark, so says nothing and just nods his thanks. Robb tilts his head in return, picks up the empty dishes and leaves the tent.

Jaime’s completely confused by Robb Stark. He is rarely wrong in his reading of other men, and yet all Robb has done is tend to his wounds and leave the rest of him untouched. The next few nights his supper is once again brought to him by the Silent Sister. Jaime is beginning to feel there is a technique at play here, some form of sensory torture being waged, but he’ll be damned if he can figure it out. He’s struck by a sense that he’s not entirely comfortable with, a sense of longing. He wants Robb to visit him again, to touch him, he finds himself dreaming of being opened up by Stark and wakes with the smell of mint in his nostrils.

It’s a full week before he sees the Young Wolf again. They’ve moved camp and he is climbing out of a wagon when his guard loses patience and yanks at his arm, causing him to fall in the mud. He looks up at the sound of shouts and sees Stark storming over to them.

“This man is our prisoner, but he’s also keeping my sisters – your princesses – alive. You’re to treat him with the respect of his station or you’ll be mucking out the horse pastures, understood?”

The guard mumbles an apology half to his king, half to Jaime, but it is Robb whose hand is at Jaime’s elbow helping him stand.

“I’ll see him in to his tent,” Robb waves the guard off.

“We seem to find ourselves in the same positions every time, Lord Stark.” Jaime japes. “I’d be happy to get on my knees for you, all you have to do is ask nicely.”

Robb throws him into the tent and steps in after him, taking a moment to tie up the canvas flaps that act as entrance.

Jaime rights himself, trying to find a seated position that does not hurt too much after hours of jolting around in the back of a wagon. Robb stalks over to him, leans down, grabs a handful of Jaime’s shirt. Once again Jaime realises that they are completely alone. It is nothing like last time, Stark is dressed in his armour and there is something of the wolf in his eyes, Jaime thinks. He could even swear that is a growl coming from Robb’s throat, but it is swallowed when Robb’s mouth covers his. It is more of a kiss this time, though there are still teeth, and it does not end when their mouths come apart. Robb nips at Jaime’s jaw, laps at the sweat in the hollow of Jaime’s throat.

He pulls away then and there is a whine, Jaime is alarmed to realise it is coming from him. Robb chuckles, a low canine rolling laugh. “Do you remember, Kingslayer, when I pointed out to you that you’d been defeated by a boy, held captive by a boy? What say you to being fucked by a boy?”

Jaime can’t speak through the haze consuming him. He does not remember the last time he felt lust at this level. Robb’s hand is on his throat, forcing Jaime’s head up to look him in the eyes. “I’ll have your consent, Lannister. Let it not be said the King in the North condones assault on his prisoners.”

Jaime jerks his head rapidly in a nod, inwardly cringing at how eager he must seem, how starved for touch he is that he is already half-hard at the thought of what is about to ensue.

Robb is methodical, taking his time to undress Jaime where Jaime would be inclined to just rip the rags off. He does not entirely disrobe himself however, removing just enough of his armour to allow access to his trousers. He keeps on his vambraces and when he lays an arm across Jaime’s thigh, the cold metal chills him, though it does nothing to fan the flames he feels licking at his body. Robb has the aromatic ointment at hand, and Jaime starts at the cool burn of the mint as one of Robb’s fingers breaches him. The process is slow, and it is almost certainly intentional, Jaime thinks, designed to have him begging for relief from the relentless pressurepainpleasure signals shooting through him. He feels only a brief flicker of shame as he does just that, begs Robb to do something, anything. Robb’s answer is another low chuckle and a second finger, followed quickly by a third. Jaime arches his back, clenches down, trying to escape the feeling while also chasing it.

It seems to go on for eons, Robb is as disciplined in love as he is in warfare and Jaime’s pleas are more a string of babble than any actual words. Robb’s fingers are relentless, and Jaime can feel every callus as they rub against that spot inside him, that one spot that has him seeing stars with every thrust of Robb’s hand. With every push of fingers, Jaime is drawn inexorably to the edge.

“Just fuck me already, Stark” he pleads through clenched teeth. The pushing slows but does not stop, and Robb looks at him, shaking his head.

“Even like this, on your back and begging for release, you still think you can dictate what happens?”

The fingers are withdrawn, and Jaime feels something akin to hunger pangs in his stomach, worry that Robb will leave him hanging there on the edge with no release. His blood is pounding in his ears but quiets down to a flutter when he hears the soft clink of the jar of ointment being opened again, and the rustle of fabric being drawn down.

Robb moves Jaime, turns him so he is facing the dirt floor of the tent. He reaches down and pulls Jaime back towards him, locking his cuffed wrists to the pole dug in the ground.

“Tell me now if you don’t think you can hold this.” Robb demands.

Jaime shifts, the muscles in his shoulders and back protesting, as he adjusts to this new position. The stretch of his arms is not so long that he cannot hold them up, and he shakes his head. He does not trust his voice not to crack if he opens it, doesn’t trust that any words will emerge that are not more pleas. His restraint is on a precipice and he is sure it will not take much for him to tip over.

Robb lowers himself to kneel behind Jaime and finally, finally, Jaime feels a satiating fullness as Robb slowly penetrates him. Robb groans and Jaime responds in kind as Robb sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn’t move for a moment and then begins moving almost leisurely, rocking himself in and out deliberately slow and steady. Jaime regrets the position he is in now, is unable to fully push himself back against Robb, unable to greedily take from below what he so desperately wants.

It goes on like this, Robb drawing out and holding back, Jaime trying to draw him back in. Jaime has given in to the sensations and his cries hit a fever pitch as Robb speeds up, pulling out and slamming into him, every thrust hitting him in just the right spot. With his hands tied, Jaime is unable to give himself the friction he needs, every muscle in his body is taut in expectation and when his completion runs through him it is a shock that comes with the force of a hurricane and every nerve is tingling as Robb does not let up, fucking Jaime through the aftershocks. Robb lowers himself down to cover Jaime’s back, his breath a hot brand against Jaime’s skin. He mouths at Jaime’s nape, and Jaime lowers his head, exposing more of his neck. It occurs to him that they must resemble two of the Stark wolves now, and the feeling is only heightened when Robb bites down hard on Jaime’s shoulder as he climaxes, his seed pulsing into Jaime seemingly without end.

They lie quiet and still for a moment. Robb lifts himself off Jaime and the sudden rush of cool air on Jaime’s back chills him despite his perspiration. The silence is broken only by the shuffle of clothing and armour as Robb redresses himself. Even without the shackles, Jaime does not think he could do the same right now, his limbs feel boneless and the effort even of sitting up is difficult enough.

There is a clink as Robb unlocks Jaime’s shackles. Jaime had been too preoccupied to notice anything Robb had brought into the tent with him, and he sees now that there is a second set of clothing and a bannerman’s cloak on the table. He looks questioningly at them, and then at Robb.

Robb’s voice, when he speaks, is low and terse.

“Bring my sisters home and this war will end. Fail to do so, and I will not stop until your entire army is decimated and your family is relegated to history as the Raynes were by your father. I won’t trust you with my life, but I’m going to wager there’s still enough knight in you to trust you with two innocent girls. You have this one chance, Kingslayer.”

Fully dressed, Robb looks ready to ride back into battle. Jaime sits there, rubbing at his wrists. He nods slowly at Robb’s statement. He is not yet sure how misguided the Young Wolf’s trust will prove to be, but he finds he is almost eager to prove himself worthy. Worthy of what? Robb Stark’s trust, his affection?

He’s killed one king, spent half his life cuckolding another. Anything he does to Stark at this point will still put him ahead. He’ll never be the knight he dreamt of as a child, but it might be there is a path to redemption nonetheless.


End file.
